Match-Day
by peaceandlove23
Summary: He wasn't cut out for boxing, and he didn't want to be there... Warning: It's kids boxing, so there's spit flying and blood mentioned. Rated T


**I've had this idea for a while, then wrote it. Thanks for reading!**

**Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and the GraviTeam and Disney XD**

**This is inspired by the amazing piece "SuckerPunch" by MoringMark, whose other amazing artworks can be found on Tumblr and Deviantart.**

* * *

He stared outside the car's window. The sun was warm on his arms, and his freckled face. On his lap sat the gym-bag, holding his uniform, gloves, shoes and headgear. He didn't want to go. He really didn't, but he knew it wasn't up for discussion. And he was smart enough to not argue with Pop.

He wasn't the kind to box. He wasn't good at it, and he was too little. Everyone knew that. He knew his Pop knew that, and the only logical conclusion the twelve-year-old could come up with for his Father signing him and his brother up for boxing classes, was that quite frankly his Father hated him.

Stan looked at his brother, who's own gym bag was sitting on the floor of the car. His face buried in a book, like always. Well, today was it was kinda weird, cause he's been reading it since breakfast. Usually books at the table weren't permitted, but Pop didn't say anything. He let him get away with it.

'He lets him get away with everything.' Stan thought bitterly, looking out the window again.

Pop never punished Stanley if he didn't finish his chores for the day. He never made Stanley come home to remake his bed if it wasn't made right. When they were younger and came home from school, bruised and bloody, he always bandaged Stanley. He always let him rest and was gentle with him. Stanford, he'd just give the band-aids to and told him to not let the cuts get infected. Sometimes he'd put something on the bruises. And that was if he even acknowledged the other boy was hurt as well.

Stanley was smart. His brains would take him places, open doors for him like everyone said. Like Pop always said.

It didn't make him hate his brother. Not really. If it was hate it was the kind kids had that was more like a white hot resentment. The kind that made you angry right then and there, and you'd swear up and down that you hate this person. And would never talk to them again. But an hour later you're fine.

And even then, it was more towards his Father than his brother.

The car stopped, and he opened the door. Slinging the bag on his thin shoulders, Stan walked to the sidewalk in front of the entrance. There were other kids, either dropped off by their folks or who walked alone, that were going inside.

Stanley had managed to sling his gym bag all the way on his other shoulder so he could keep reading his book.

'Werido.' Stanford thought to himself.

Their Father walked with them, a large, strong hand on their shoulders. Almost like he was trying to keep them from running away.

Did he have to do this? Walk them in like the smaller kids. At least he wasn't holding their hands, like he still sometimes did, which did nothing to help with the bullies at school.

The halls of the YMCA were full of kids and adults. Going here and there for the other classes open this summer. Swimming, basketball, soccer on the field outside, and track. Both boys were bad at gym, but playing in general they liked, as all kids do. Soccer or baseball with each other, or some of the other kids in Glass Shard Beach wasn't too bad. But gym, and places like this, ruined it. It was full of bigger, stronger kids who knew which kids were the weak ones.

Their Father took his hands off their shoulders when they came to the locker room, and kept on his own way down the hall. He'd be in the boxing room. Watching from the side. Like always.

'No one else's Pop watches.' Stanford thought as he and his brother went in the locker room. Maybe he thought they'd try to ditch. And Stan had to admit he might've tried it without his Dad there all the time.

In the locker room, you could tell who was in the boxing class. Short or skinny kids like the twins. Kids who had thin arms, thin legs, and no muscles. Boys who were weak and bullied at school, only to be weak and bullied here. No one was smiling or laughing because no one of them wanted to be there.

Except for Mike.

Mike Brocuwski. The meanest kid in their grade, who was just as much a bully here as he was at school. He didn't even _need_ to know how to box. They all knew he was just in the class so he'd have an excuse to beat up kids with adults in the room. It wasn't even real boxing. He just sat on people in the ring and started punching! Like at school.

Stanley called him Fattie Brocuwski behind his back.

Right now he was tormenting some kids who were changing for soccer. He spotted the Pines twins just as Stanford was tying his shoes, and Stanley, who had his back turned, was putting on his head gear.

"Well if it isn't Pineneedle and the Paranoid-Freakaziod!" He grinned walking over to them, "You guys know what today is?"

Neither boy said anything. It was better to let Mike say what he wanted.

"It's Match-Day! I'm the best boxer in class," He boasted, "So that means I get to pound the crap outta both of you!" He bumped his gloves together, "Maybe I'll break you're head enough you'll get normal!" He thumped Stanley's head, hard, causing the smaller boy to almost fall into his locker.

Stanford stood up, and started foreword, but shrinked away when Mike looked at him. Tall, wide, with thick arms. Mike pushed him over the bench and asked what he was going to do? Stanford didn't answer. He couldn't.

"You're gonna be a pile of mush when I'm done!" Mike grinned. His breath smelled horrible, Stan could smell it from there, "Maybe I'll use you both as mulch, for my Mom's garden!" He laughed. He went to leave, but not before taking Stanley's book and throwing it on the other side of the locker room.

Stanley automatically ran to get it. His possession soon back in his hands, and head buried between the safety of it's pages. He walked over to his locker and closed it, then turned towards the doors.

"Coming?" He asked over his shoulder.

"Yeah." Stanford got up and closed his own locker.

* * *

There was Pop. Standing tall, his arms crossed, looking at the ring. Their father was an intimidating man. It caused automatic respect soon as he walked in a room, and no one dared to cheat him when negotiating deals at the store.

And he insisted on staying during each match to watch his sons. No one challenged him, no one suggested he leave. His aim for doing this Stanford didn't know, but it made him nervous. He could feel his father's gaze on him and his brother beneath the sunglasses he always wore.

The boys gave him their glasses as they walked pass him and onto the stands. Mike was grinning, and sitting on the edge of the first row. He was the only one excited for the day. No doubt all the other boys knew their collective fates.

The Boxing Coach came in.

"Alright Boys," He said, "Today's the first Match Day. Let's see if the pass four weeks did you boys any good." He looked at his clipboard, "Brocuwski, get up here."

Mike was in the ring within a minute. Smiling evilly at the victims.

"Smith! You're up first."

Phillip Smith was a short, pale boy. Lightest in the class. He bruised easy, and scared easy, and was known for crying easy. He didn't last ten seconds.

Mike didn't even have to sit on him. One hit to his face, and he was down. Bloody nose, tears, and all."

"Come on Smith!" The instructor helped him out the ring, and stuffed some tissue from his pocket up the boy's nose, and told him to keep his head up.

"Alright..." The clipboard again, "Jones, you'r turn."

Stan was waiting. Like a prisoner on death row. He'd been beat up before. He's been black-eyed, bruised, bloody-nosed, crushed fingers, face shoved in dirt. But the fear never goes away. Not to someone whose use to it. It stays and gets worse.

He looked at his father, who was looking at him and Stanley. He wasn't going to make Stanley put the book down. He knew it.

What did he mean by watching them? They weren't tough. He thought sadly how his Pop had probably been a tough kid. Not wimpy like them.

Kevin Jones lasted a minute, then he was out. Then Williams, then Jacobs. And finally, the instructor called out, "Pines!" He looked at the two boys in matching yellow uniforms. His eyes shifted between them for a moment, before saying, "You!" and pointing at Stanford, who heart stopped.

"Okay. We're gonna take a ten minute break, when we get back it's gonna be Pines and Mike...And boys, I'd like to actually see some boxing today."

They left the bleachers. Pop handed their glasses back. He didn't say anything. He didn't tell Stanley to put the book down, like Stanford knew he wouldn't.

In the hallway Mike was purposefully holding up the line to the water fountain. Spraying water on the other kids. Stanford took his brother's arm and ducked in the bathrooms instead.

He took the gloves off and turned on the faucet. After three scoop-fulls of water into his mouth, he announced, while drying his hands, "You can have all my stuff when I die."

"You won't die." Stanley said, face still behind the book.

"I'm gonna die."

"Don't be so dramatic."

Stanford looked at his brother for a moment. He felt angry. Stanley called Mike Fattie sure, but he was just as miserable as he was. He had to be. Couldn't he put that dumb book down and act like it? At least to make him feel better?

"Ya wanna put that stupid book down and look at me when you say that?" He snapped. Just as he did the doors opened, and poor Phillip Smith walked in.

"Hi Stanley, hi Stanford." He said, taking some paper towels and running them under the sink.

"Hi Phill." Stanley said his face still covered with the volume.

"Today would be better at the library huh?" Phill asked, replacing the bloody tissue.

"Mmhm." Stanley agreed.

Stanford wasn't much for the library, though he didn't mind it, but he nodded anyway. He would rather be home playing fetch with Princess. Or working in the hardware store even. Or chores, or reading the suspense comic he bought last week and still hasn't opened yet.

Or the swing-set on the beach. He wanted to be there, with Stanley. He wished they could both just climb out a window, and run to the beach. Where no one would bother them. And they wouldn't have to do anything, didn't have to box, or try to. But he had a feeling trying to climb out a window would just reveal their Dad waiting for them under it.

"At leahst you guhys Dah comhes." Was the congested sentence from Phillip as he put the wet paper in his nose.

"I wish he wouldn't. I don't know what he's waiting for, and he's the only one." Stanford complained.

Philllip smiled sympathetically, because it was really all he could do. He told the twins about his Aunt sending him a new telescope, and said he was going to look at the stars next Saturday. They could come if they wanted.

"Thanks."

"Mhm." Phillip left. He was a nice kid. Probably the only one wimpier than them.

"I wish we were home." Stan sighed, sliding down to the floor, next to his brother.

"Me too."

"Why are we even here? Why are you here? Pop likes you," He asked, irritated, "We're not cut out for this, especially not me!"

"Pop likes you too-"

"No he doesn't!" Stan snapped. "You know he doesn't!"

"Stan, why wouldn't he?" His brother asked, irritation in his vioce.

"Why would he? Remember what Uncle Jack was saying?" Stan sighed, "You were there. When he was callin' me a loser? Sayin' Pop should just do himself a favor and get rid of me, did you hear Him say anything? No. He didn't. He didn't say anything!"

Stanley didn't move. He didn't make a response.

"The only time I heard him say anything," Stan went on, "Was when Uncle Jack said that if his sons were as weak and wimpy as me he's just drop them off at the fire-station or something!

"He said he couldn't stand to have boys like that in his house, and Pop should just get rid of me...and you know what Dad said? He said sometimes he wishes he could...He said he's be lying if he said the thought never crossed his mind!"

"Stanford-"

"He never says that about you. You're smart, you have that going for you. But not me." He sighed, wiping his eyes on his uniform. Stanley has seen him cry before, he didn't care if he saw him now,"Pop hates me, that's why I'm in this dumb class. That's why he watches us every match. He's probably waiting for me to be knocked dead-"

"Don't say stuff like that! Pop doesn't hate you. I know he doesn't."

"Then why am I here? Why?!" He stood up, and grabbed the spine of the book, yanking it away, "And can you put that dam-" He stopped.

His twin looked as surprised as he did by the action. But he was more surprised at the black bruise that covered his brother's left eye, still a dark color; fresh. The boys stared at each other for a moment.

"This is why you've had your face buried in that thing all day?"

Stanley didn't respond. He reached for his book and Stanford didn't try to keep it. He asked what happened and if Pop knew.

"Last night when I went to take out the trash Mike was walking by," Stanley explained, not looking at him, "Look, Stan he did it just for kicks, that's all."

"Why didn't-"

"You and Dad were sleeping when I went back inside." Stanley went on, "Dad knows, but he said there was nothing to do. It doesn't matter." He got up from the floor, and went out the door. Stan grabbed his gloves and followed close behind, "It's not like I haven't gotten a black eye before."

"Why did you hide it, though?"

"I don't know." Seeing his twin's expression he went on, "Stan, it's not like you could've done anything!"

"But-"

Mike interrupted them.

"You two look so cute in your matching uniforms." He taunted, "Too bad I'm gonna put blood all over yours, Pineneedle." He pushed Stan, "And in front of your Daddy!" He went down the hall, and back to the boxing room.

"He'll be doing Pop a favor."

"Oh shut up!" Stanley snapped, "Stan, Pop just wants you to be strong, that's all."

"But I'm not!" Stan whined.

"Then get strong! Dad and Uncle Jack, and everyone else will leave ya alone when you do!" Stanley looked him in the eye for the first time that day.

"How?!" He snapped back at him, "How am I suppose to do that? Look at me! I can't do anything with these arms! I'm not strong, I'm not tough...I'm not smart like you...I'm not anything. I actually wouldn't blame Pop if he just got rid of me."

"Well that's pretty selfish, I'd be left alone." Stanley laughed, trying to get Stanford to do the same.

"You'd probably be better off. I couldn't even stand up for you in the locker room."

"Well...if you die, I'll die next. And then we can haunt Mike for the rest of his life." But Stanford didn't respond, he wasn't looking at him.

Stanley put his arm over his brother's shoulder and didn't try to say anything else. He didn't encourage him. He didn't tell him to not give up. He didn't say anything, but he held on to him, and that was enough. Stanford wouldn't have listened to him anyway, and maybe that's why Stanley didn't comment. He felt his own heart, that had been dreading today as much as his brother's, sink low as well.

The two boys went into the boxing room. Last to come back. The bleachers full and Mike was already in the ring, grinning, with those two buck teeth of his, at the smaller boys.

Passing by their Pop, to hand over their glasses, just as Stan was about to go to the ring he felt his Father's hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He looked back up at the man.

"Knock 'im dead, Kid."

He didn't say anything back, not even a "Yes, Sir." He let Stan go then. And into the ring where Mike was waiting for him. The Coach had them agree to show sportsmanship, then blew the rusty whistle.

Mike grinned evilly. He loomed over the smaller boy who was trying to remember if he was standing right, and holding his gloves up in the right way.

"I'm gonna beat the crap outta ya, kid." He charged and was on top of Stanford before the latter could do anything.

Stanford had his arms free, but his stomach felt the weight of Mike on top of him. It was hard to breath. And then there was a blow to his head. Another to the side. Mike laughed and asked what he was gonna do. Having the answer already figured out.

Stan swung, and missed. Another punch, this time to his chest. He strained, feeling the wind knocked out of him.

He could see Stanley. His twin's eyes were peeking over the top of the book. They weren't judging him for being to weak. They were just looking at him. A large bruise over the left. And they looked so sad.

Something pushed itself into his heart. The same white, hot anger he felt before in the car. He felt it gather just enough inside of him, to allow him to wind back one arm. Mike either didn't notice or didn't care. He was getting ready for a punch too.

But Stan was faster. He screamed out the one thing that apparently stuck with him the past few weeks...

"Left hook!" And he swung, eyes closed.

He felt his glove hit Mike. He opened his eye in time to see the spit fly from his mouth, and was fast enough to hit him again while the bully was shocked.

Mike eased off of him, stunned, and fell to his side.

Stan stood up quickly, shocked himself. Shocked he had manged to hit him. That he had caused him to ease up. He didn't notice the look from the other kids watching. But he could feel courage rise up in him. An instinct that has always been there, to defend himself. His brother.

"I want a do over!" Mike yelled. The Coach allowed it.

The bully narrowed his eyes. And Stan narrowed his.

"I'm gonna give yo a black eye just like you're Brother's."

The bully ran towards him with a cry, but Stan was guided by this new feeling. He kept his eyes open this time, as his glove made contact with Mike's cheek. And then his other one. And his eye. He could feel the force of each blow through his gloves.

He ducked when Mike haphazardly tried to return the injury. He had never needed to _really_ box, not til now. Not til the usually small, thin-skinned boy felt fury and fought back.

Stan glared, and delivered the last blow to Mike's nose.

Mike was taller than he was. He had to jumped a bit to hit him. But it knocked the larger boy to the ground. And the bully stayed there, still and quiet. Stan stared, worried for a moment.

The opponent slowly got up, ripped a glove off his hand, and covered his face. Turning around, Stan saw blood on his chin, and fringing in the sides if his fingers. When Mike moved his hand, he revealed a blood covered nose and torn upper lip.

"...AAAAGHH!" The bigger boy cried, took a breath, and then cried again. Followed by thick large gasps of air. He sounded seven years younger, and stumbled out the ring like he was too. He ran out the doors, crying and stumbling.

Stan stared after him. He hadn't meant to hit him that hard. But remembering the trouble and pain Mike put him, his brother, and a bunch of other kids through, kept him from feeling too bad about it. He didn't feel bad at all. He felt justified.

The room was quiet. He turned back to the bleachers, the instructor. All the other boys were wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Even Stanley had his book in his lap, his lips parted, and eyes wide in amazement.

Stanford wasn't sure what to do. So he stood there.

Stanley's open mouth turned to a grin, and he slowly chanted, his voice low so as to encourage the others, "Pines! Pines! Pines!"

It didn't take much for the other boys to join the chant. Loud, and triumphant, they rushed off the bleachers and were soon in the ring with the Hero. Hugging, patting him on the back, smiling more than any of them had ever smiled before in that class. The chant of Pines eventually turned to "Stan! Stan! Stan!"

It wasn't till the class was over, and the Pines twins were two of the last in the locker-room (and other boys were still telling Stan good job and giving him high-fives as they left) that the brothers were able to talk. Stanley tackled him in a hug, and laughed.

"It was incredible! I've never seen anything like it!" He said, "I didn't know you could do that!"

"Me neither!"

"Mike's probably gonna leave people alone for a while!" Stanley laughed, and hugged him again, "I can't believe you did that!"

"I..I guess I'm not so useless to ya after all, huh?"

"Come on, Stan, you've always been tough to me!" Stanley hit him playfully on the shoulder, then opened his locker to change.

As he was putting on his overalls Stan asked, "Hey, uh...Did you see Pop, during all that?"

"Yeah. He was nodding."

"Nodding?"

"Yeah, like," Stanley turned around, and demonstrated a serious approving nod, "Like that." He zipped his pants up.

"Heh...Do ya think he was...ya, know-"

"Of course he was proud of you!" Stanley closed his gym bag. "Why wouldn't he be? Stan don't amount everything to what Dad thinks. Are you proud of yourself?"

"Yeah." Stan smiled, "I am."

"That's all that matters."

They closed their lockers and walked out. Stanford was startled by a sudden lift in the air, and a deep chuckle that he and his brother were both unaccustomed to.

"Ahaha!" Mr. Pines, Sir. smiled, "That's what I call a sucker punch!" He put Stanford down, and got on one knee, hand on his son's back, "Didn't I say you'd knock 'im dead?"

Stanford smiled and nodded.

His father ruffled the messy mop of brown hair, "We'll have to work on you're form a bit more." And to Stanley, "And I need to get this little boy's face outta the books, so he can learn something!" He chuckled.

"Come here," He motioned for his other son to step closer to him, and then he put both of his strong arms around the boys, the way a father does when he wants his children to look him in the eyes. He had removed his sunglasses before speaking to them, and he had the same deep brown eyes of the twins.

"You know, that's how us Pines men are?" He said to them, "We start out small, and little. But we grow, and get taller, and start to fill out. And when we're done growing, we're strong Pines, and no one can say otherwise. That's how I was at you boy's age, believe it or not."

Mr. Pines smiled, then said seriously, "But you can't leave it all to Mother Nature kids, understand. You gotta show 'em you won't lay down for no one. You gotta put in the effort for it to happen, right?"

"Right!" They answered in unison.

"That's my boys." He grinned, standing up. He ruffled Stanford's hair again, "My little prize fighter." He murmured, "I knew you could do it, kiddo. I knew it."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews would be welcome!**


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